


Your Hands... were meant to give Life

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Established Relationship, Finger Painting, Hand Jobs, Kinktober 2019, Painting, Post Canon - Aged Up Character(s), Roommates, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 01:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21235598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: When Yahaba asks to borrow Shirabu's supplies, he wasn't sure what to expect, but it definitely was not this.





	Your Hands... were meant to give Life

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 29 - Prompt: Hand Jobs

Yahaba rolls up his sleeves. Shirabu stares at the tubes in growing apprehension. Unscrewing the cap off a small container, Yahaba squeezes the contents out on his finger.

Shirabu’s eyes widen. “Shigeru,” he warns.

Yahaba wiggles his fingers. “I know what I’m doing.” Shirabu sincerely doubts that. Picking up on Shirabu’s lack of faith, Yahaba rubs his hands together until they’re thoroughly coated. “It’s a hand job.”

“It’s not a hand job,” Shirabu protests. He hugs his knees to his chest and prepares for the worst.

Kneeling before Shirabu’s feet, Yahaba offers a reckless smile. “Any requests?”

“Yes,” Shirabu says. “Stop.”

Yahaba slaps his hands down. Blue paint squelches through his fingers. Fanning them out, he spreads the blue in thick strokes.

Shirabu retreats farther back on the couch. “You’re the one cleaning this up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Yahaba caresses his way down the canvas, leaving behind a bridge of color. He lets it pool near the top, stretching it into thin cobalt strands the farther down he goes.

“Nice,” Yahaba mumbles to himself. Humming softly, he selects another tube, staining it with thick globs of paint.

“Clean your hands,” Shirabu hisses.

Yahaba squeezes a yellow sun onto his palms. “Why? They’ll just get dirty again.” He smacks the yellow right onto the center of his painting. It comes away green, and he smooths it in a large circle to the bottom corners.

He can’t watch this. Pulling out his phone, Shirabu tries to distract himself from the messy tubes and the globs of green paint splattering Yahaba’s shirt. He’ll need a new shirt, which Shirabu will not be buying, and the floor will need to be cleaned, which Shirabu will not be mopping.

“Finger painting,” he mumbles. Angrily, he opens an online selling site to see if he can sell Yahaba in exchange for new flooring. It doesn’t have an option for animals, but coat rack comes up near the top. It’s a good fit for Yahaba. Tall. Lanky. Okay at holding things but very likely to the drop them anyway.

“This will be my second greatest achievement,” Yahaba says. Before him, the canvas glistens with purples and reds, like its covered in blistering wounds.

“What’s the first, then?” Shirabu mutters. “The stains you’re putting on the tile?”

“No.” Yahaba slides one knuckle through the red and yellow, swirling it into appeasing orange. “Being with you is my greatest achievement.”

Heat colors Shirabu’s face. He furiously types out the coat rack information. For the height, he lists Yahaba a few centimeters shorter than reality. For a description, he selects the adjectives “dense” and “frustrating.” He tries to post it, but the site won’t accept “free” as a starting price.

Yahaba picks up a paper towel and folds it. Shirabu prays that this nightmare is finally over, but instead of cleaning himself off, he dips the edge of it into the black paint on his hand and uses it to draw thin lines across the canvas. A more solid shape takes form. Shirabu makes out the rippling water of a lake as sunset dips into its surface. A fence stretches into the unknown. Trees curl around the edges like they’re guarding a hidden treasure.

Applying a dab of green to his fingertip, he paints leaves on the branches. “Museum soup, forbidden fruit,” he sings under his breath.

“Stop.”

“It looks tasty.”

“It’s flippin’ paint,” Shirabu says. He sees no edible appeal, but Yahaba dips his fingers in a glass of water like he would a paint brush.

As the color inside changes from clear to a muddy black, Yahaba whispers, “Artist coffee.”

“No.”

Yahaba leans his head back to look up at him. “Relax a little.”

“You are filthy.” Flecks of purple paint spot his face like freckles. Blue streaks down his cheek, and a multitude of colors dot his hair.

Yahaba shrugs. He swirls midnight and indigo at the top of the canvas, swiping his thumbs to create gray clouds across the sky. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth. With a tiny dab of white on his finger, he highlights the shine of the lake.

“There.” He stands up and bows. “As you requested.”

Shirabu quirks an eyebrow. “I requested nothing.”

“You said ‘stop.’” He points at the painting. “Here is a lovely rest stop.”

“You are something else.” Shaking his head, Shirabu turns back to his phone, able to breathe more easily now that the majority of the damage is done. If they start cleaning now, they should be able to get all the paint off the floor before it dries.

Yahaba slides onto the couch besides him and dips his hand beneath Shirabu’s chin, tilting his head up to kiss his cheek.

Shirabu tenses. “You are not touching me with paint fingers,” he says.

“I’m not touching you with paint fingers,” Yahaba lies. He slides a wet hand up to cup Shirabu’s cheek, and he shivers. “The handprints on your skin were there before I got here.”

“Jerk.” Shirabu tries to crawl away, but arms loop around his waist, staining his shirt. He pushes against Yahaba. Paint sticks to his fingers.

Yahaba snuggles closer, pressing his face into Shirabu’s cheek until they have matching blue streaks on their skin. “Let me love you.”

“You’re dirty.” Shirabu struggles to break free. Yahaba holds him tighter.

They tumble off the couch. Shirabu’s side hits the ground first. His elbow crushes a paint tube, and green explodes across the floor. Yahaba lands on top of him. Something wet pools around his ankle.

Shirabu glares up at him, and Yahaba smiles sheepishly. “Looks like we’re going shopping.”

“This is your fault.”

“You should of let me love you,” Yahaba argues. He looks Shirabu over, and his gaze softens. Leaning down, he kisses the tip of his nose. “You’re a work of art.”

Shirabu’s cheeks burn, and he hopes that if anything, the paint will hide it. “Sap.” He slides his hand up Yahaba’s neck, drawing lines along his jaw, his cheek. The paint mixes, forming a rainbow path of blue and purple and black. “I call dibs on the bath while you clean this place up.”

“We could just leave the floor like this-”

Shirabu presses the back of hand against Yahaba’s mouth. “Silence.”

Yahaba kisses his hand. Capturing it with his own, he laces their fingers together, trailing kisses over Shirabu’s knuckles one by one.

“Sap,” Shirabu repeats, his chest so warm he’s sure Yahaba will be able to feel it.

“What can I say?” He presses his forehead to their joined hands. “You’re my greatest masterpiece.”


End file.
